Okay, I'm convinced that the laptop computer was designed by a woman.... a woman like me, who loved to take long luxurious baths, and who liked to snuggle in soft flannel sheets and big fluffy feather duvets. Because here I am, sitting in bed propped up by four pillows, wearing my Warm Softies (clothing I would never, ever leave the house in -- someone else I know calls these "body slippers"), being serenaded by Slab, my faithful laptop who, like the best butler, can play me nice music (Baxter, at the moment) and still meticulously take notes; but who, in his single inch of titanium grooviness, sits rather unobtrusively on my thighs. Even the best butler would be a bit bulky, comparatively.
This is getting out of hand. Really, I need, like, a little recorder or something, like gross '80's businessmen or junior college professors use, to make notes to myself when I get an idea. I keep forming blog entries in my mind in some random place, getting to where I can see it take shape, then thinking, "Oh, I'll remember it for later." Of course I seldom do. When the time comes to recall the filed information, my brain goes, "oh, I'm sorry, was there something in that space you needed? Oop, well it ain't there now." I can recall the feeling of it, how good it was... and my brain, again just trying to help, plays a sound for me. "Was it *this?*" it asks, playing white noise: "Shhhhhhhhhhh
